The Little Match Boy
by buttercupbella
Summary: One day, just seeing Sherlock's apparition with the help of some pills on a lonely night won't be enough- because sometimes, the best and only friend you have leaves your life just as quickly as he enters it, and you have no other choice but to chase him when he's gone. Post-Reichenbach, drug abuse, charadeath. Oneshot.


Three perspectives- maybe this isn't my best, but then again, nothing of my works is ever considered a 'best'. A short read (made during some boring minutes), not proofread. The points of view are really confusing, I mean it's _literally _three perspectives. I hope you (understand and) enjoy :)

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**The Little Match Boy**

_buttercupbella_

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The gunshot reverberated in your ear. For the second time, fear coursed through your body and you took a step back, breaths wild and counted as you saw a short man getting out of the black cab.

He couldn't have mattered if you kept your stoic little heart as cold as it was before you looked at him and something other than deductions hit your mind. One glimpse at John Watson, and you knew that you would finally have a friend.

You also knew that whatever it was that began between the two of you would have to end in some painful way or another.

Maybe that's why you decided to stand at the edge of the rooftop, your hands trembling as you held the phone close to your ear but far away from your battered chest. This goodbye had been inevitable, really, and you were always the selfish man because you didn't want him to leave. That's why it has to be you who drifted away.

You cherished that confused look on John's face when he held his chin up at the remarkable sight at the top of Bart's, but you had to break the news sooner or later. You're a fake- a fake genius, an invisible brother, an incomprehensible flatmate, and a friend with the shortest time limit there ever was. Sometimes you wondered if Moriarty was real when he'd said he was a villain, because no matter how hard you analyze your life in various angles, it didn't bloody seem like a fairytale.

John looked at you and pleaded for an explanation which you can never give. What were you supposed to say? That you were going on a trip to clear things up a bit and maybe disappear forever? You were best at tucking your emotions away, but here you were, fighting back a genuine sob. You were Sherlock Holmes, and you didn't, in any way, have a heart.

Not anymore.

The words were caught in your dry throat, and you noticed that you had opened your mouth to speak.

"Goodbye, John."

* * *

To say that I'm sad is an understatement of another understatement. Mrs. Hudson said that I'm wallowing in front of the fireplace, putting damned sugar in my tea, and talking to Sherlock's skull. Perhaps it's better to describe me as mad, in every sense of the word.

I've learned to feign sickness in therapy sessions, because every time I looked the therapist straight in the eye, I remembered why I was even in her office and I pathetically excused myself to the bathroom. Seeing as I was a military doctor, it seemed unreasonable for me to cry over another dead man that was you, Sherlock.

Sorry. I always thought that you weren't gone, and I'd blab on and on, thinking that you were listening.

I bought those antidepressant pills named Zoloft (rhymes with Mycroft but you'd think that the coincidence was stupid). They helped in making me sleep, at the least, and when I crept into my bed, I could hear you shouting for me to help you in one of those bloody experiments involving a decapitated head.

I realized that I'm using 'you' again when I'm talking to myself, but let's pretend that you're still alive, even for a little while.

Anyway, today was bland so I decided to pop in three pills at once. They tasted bitter but rather soothing, and before I could turn the telly on, you mumbled some unintelligible words behind me. I'm going mad. Let's keep it that way if it meant that I could see you again. It's becoming a habit of me to pretend that you're there whenever I take my medication, and worse, I could actually say that you were here, because even at the slightest use of keen observation I would sense your presence.

Unconsciously, I grabbed for the cold tips of your fingers. You rambled on and on about how Anderson was such a hindrance to your last case. It was nice, sitting by the hearth and holding your hand. And hoping that you'd stay.

Next thing I knew, the wind was rushing past my face and my knees were wobbly at the sight of the distant streetlights. It was much like what I remembered from before, except that the sky was darkened by orange and purple hues of sunset and that I'm looking at you not from below. You were holding the phone, and a choke hitched up your throat the moment you said a name- my name. You're about to jump. You're about to die.

I was mad, wasn't I?

As London delved deep into the dim night, I stared across the pavement with blurry, sideways eyesight, tears mixing with the blood staining the asphalt road.

I was still holding your hand.

* * *

"Greg Lestrade," a sullen voice droned into the microphone on the dreary morning of August 17. Lestrade, upon hearing his name, stood up promptly and shook particulates off his black coat.

The inspector didn't proceed to the lectern and instead looked at the bashed in head of John Watson. Lestrade knew about the Zoloft pills which Watson had purchased at an old drugstore. He also had sufficient research on the side effects of the pills- headaches, illusions, and Lestrade didn't even want to think of the last one.

Suicide.

He sighed and returned to his seat, eyeing the thousands of people who attended the ex-military doctor's funeral. Of course, the number of attendees was made large by John's blog, and Lestrade decided to allow them to come. There were even kids who wore the hideous hats while asking their mommies if John Watson was going to come back alive, kind of like what Irene Adler had done (the children remembered Adler as 'The Woman' as they were thoroughly fond of the blog). Their mothers gave them skeptical looks and shushed them, pretending that nothing was ever spoken.

When the church was empty of fans and close friends, Lestrade turned on his heel and accepted the call from Donovan (probably another case, yet he had the smallest amount of hatred for the sergeant after everything that had happened), barely catching a glimpse of a tall, silent figure who was leaning over the coffin and pressing his lips lightly and solemnly on the wet glass.

"Goodbye, John."

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You kiss his coffin and taste the saltwater on your tongue, wishing that you had been there all along.

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**|Author's Note|**

Did you even get how the title was related OTL

Hey, reviews would be appreciated!


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